


There Is A Crack In Everything

by ruric



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: satedan_grabass, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-13
Updated: 2010-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Ronon might not talk much but they have their own way of working things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is A Crack In Everything

The soft chime of a not wholly unexpected incoming message rouses Ronon from the half-doze half-meditative state he’s been in for the past few hours. 

It’s not meditation the way Teyla thinks of it – the total focus of breathing and posture which leads to her achieving a mental state she’s described but he’s never been able to reach. He grins recalling her huff of exasperation, the delicately raised eyebrow followed by the mock scowl she’d sent him, as he’d snored and muttered his way through session after session of her training. 

Ronon doesn’t meditate the way she does...but years of running means he knows how to still his body, soften his breath and _unfocus_ his mind. Aware of the sounds around him, gradually letting himself slip into that half-awake state, conscious thought becoming sluggish and incoherent, trusting his subconscious will solve any problems that’ve been annoying him. 

Unfortunately tonight has been more of an exercise in frustration rather than resolution but there’s little he can do about it right now.

He pushes himself out of the lazy sprawl fingers sliding over the keyboard as the terse message opens, soft light illuminating his screen. 

_Meet me?_

He knows the lack of any set time in the message means “right now” and they’ve done this often enough that the where, particularly at this time of Atlantis’s cycle, is a foregone conclusion. 

Dressing quickly he pulls on the leather pants, worn and soft, which bear as many scuffs and scars as his body does and shrugs into a shirt. His oldest clothes, and they’re almost ready to drop apart, seams and hems slowly fraying, but they’re a part of his history, something of his from a Sateda which now only lives in his memories. 

Sometimes it helps to remember and feel where you’ve come from, as well as know where you’re going.

They’re currently in what everyone loosely refers to as Atlantis’s “night schedule” so the corridors are quieter than usual, most of the inhabitants asleep with only a skeleton science and military staff still at work. 

Sheppard had explained when their first teams came through the gate to Atlantis there weren’t enough people to keep the city fully operational all the time. By the time they finally did have enough the patterns of Atlantean “day” and “night” were settled and, it seems, humans the worlds over are creatures of habit, wanting those hours of relative silence and slumber.

Ronon likes Atlantis at night. 

The empty corridors, the way people who are up and around speak to each other in softer tones and complete their tasks more quietly, the sense of other presences asleep behinds doors and walls. He knows it’s a false security but their ability to lie down and sleep, to trust the others around them to keep watch, makes him feel oddly safe. 

However it’d been six months before he could do the same - to relax deeply enough to get 4 or 6 hours of continuous sleep. Only then had he finally realised how utterly tired he was: tired of running, of being chased and of being alone though he honestly doubts he’ll ever get tired of killing Wraith.

It takes him barely ten minutes to reach his goal and the door of the gym slides closed behind him.

Sheppard’s already there dressed all in black and Ronon can smell John’s sweat in the confines of the room. 

It prickles his nose, hits the back of his throat and he swallows hard, a bloom of rising heat causing his skin to flush. 

Ronon doesn’t need to see the darker patches where material clings wetly between shoulder blades and at the small of his back to know Sheppard’s already been trying to work off some of the pent up energy. But the feral glitter of hazel eyes and the coiled tenseness of his stance show just how little that’s helped.

The childhood and training games they’ve taught each other from Sateda or Earth are nowhere near sufficient for tonight. Ronon turns indicating with a nod the array of polished wooden training weapons racked out ready for use.

“Swords? Staffs?” He asks stripping anything but the sound of outright challenge from his voice. “Hand to hand? It’s your choice.”

Sheppard’s answering grin is a flash of teeth but Ronon’s known him long enough and can see it’s more forced than genuine.

“Those.” 

Sheppard tips his chin in the direction of the bantos and Ronon huffs a soft laugh causing Sheppard’s grin to widen. 

“What’s the matter? Think it’ll be too close a thing?”

Ronon growls out a “No” shaking his head and tosses two of the sticks to Sheppard who catches them easily in one hand.

Sheppard’s competent with the wooden sword, good at hand to hand but Ronon’s extra weight and added height give him an advantage. 

But Sheppard’s been training in the use of the bantos since he got here. Teyla’s taught him all the tricks she knows and Sheppard’s good enough to improvise, his speed and reflexive ability to twist and turn balancing out Ronon’s extra reach. It’s not arrogance for Sheppard to think it’ll be close – just an honest assessment of his own skills.

Ronon takes two of the sticks, twirls them to remind his body of their weight and watches as Sheppard does the same. 

Turning to face each other they circle, feinting and blocking, sticks twirling almost faster than the eye can see, sharp crack of wood against wood as feints are blocked and balance shifted. Ronon has to reach high on the right to block a feint and then reverse quickly to block another that threatens to deliver a stinging blow to his calf.

But he recognises what Sheppard’s doing forcing him to stretch and bend and he attacks fast, stepping in trapping Sheppard’s sticks between own. Won’t hold him for long but it’s just enough for Ronon to step in close, and glare into hazel eyes through the crossed sticks.

“I’m warmed up enough Sheppard. We can stop playing and start sparring whenever you’re ready.”

He shoves hard, enough to send Sheppard sprawling, but Sheppard had been ready, weight shifting and he dances back without stumbling.

There’s a flash of white teeth as Sheppard shoots him a grin, chin tilting up, fingers loosening their grip on one staff enough to curl and beckon. 

“Think you can take me? Come on then!”

Ronon circles and lunges, right arm going high to deliver an overhead blow, left arm swinging wide and lower to try and connect with Sheppard’s thigh. 

The crack of wood on wood is as loud as a shot and Ronon feels the reverberation all the way up his arm and into his chest, where it echoes for a moment like an extra heartbeat.

Sheppard presses an attack and Ronon retreats before a flurry of blows, muscles and skin warming under the persistent smack and crack of the sticks seeking the softness of flesh. 

He lets Sheppard press him across the room, twists to avoid having his back against a wall and manages to deliver a stinging blow to Sheppard’s thigh. The thunk of Sheppard’s staff against his upper arm makes his fingers go numb. Just for a second he feels his grip on the staff loosen, finds himself scowling at his fingers to make them tighten and hang on and Sheppard’s laugh rings mockingly around the room.

Ronon lunges forward, the tap, tap, crack as wood meets in a staccato beat matches the thumping of his heart. His hand clenches around the hilt of the stick, fist punching into Sheppard’s gut doubling him over winded. Ronon’s follow up blow lands solidly on Sheppard’s shoulders and he stumbles, knees hitting the mat, gasping for breath.

“First point’s mine. So...your brother Dave?”

There was a time when Ronon would have been furious when confronted with Sheppard’s brother who looked at him with disbelief and disdain. But instead of angry he’d found himself amused, sorry for the brother who knew as little about Sheppard’s present as any of the team knew of Sheppard’s past. 

“It’s too long and complicated a story for now...” 

Sheppard squints up at him and sucks down another ragged breath holding out a hand so Ronon can haul him to his feet.

“...but basically he thought I wanted the money.”

“Did you tell him you didn’t?”

Sheppard rakes his free hand through his hair until it stands on end in damp spikes.

“Yeah.”

Ronon tugs on Sheppard’s hand pulling him a step closer leaning in to whisper into his ear.

“Did you tell him _politely_?”

Sheppard’s bark of surprised laughter brushes hotly against Ronon’s neck.

“The _second_ time I spoke to him? Yeah I did.”

Stepping back, switching a staff to each hand Ronon notes the lines around Sheppard’s eyes and mouth easing a little, the hazel glitter more humorous than feral.

Then Sheppard is on him, flurry of blows driving him back across the room. Ronon drops one staff low to defend a blow to his calf, doesn’t quite recover fast enough to block the next blow and a stinging crack across his knuckles makes him drop the stick in his right hand. 

Fighting one stick against two is never an easy match, especially with Sheppard and its only a matter of time before Ronon finds his back pressed against a wall, Sheppard’s crossed sticks pressing against his throat forcing his chin high.

“My point,” Sheppard crows. “So you liked my wife.”

“I _said_ she was pretty,” Ronon corrects him.

“You were jealous.” 

The tone is teasing. Sheppard’s laughing at him, his body pressed against Ronon’s, thigh between his, a hip pressed tight into Ronon’s groin to keep him pinned to the wall. 

Ronon thinks about the pretty woman who’d wrapped her arms around Sheppard pulling him into an easy hug. He remembers stepping away to give them some privacy, thinks about his meditation earlier this evening, and offers up honesty.

“I could be.”

Sheppard blinks in surprise, smile still in place but twisting until hips rock into Ronon. Crossed sticks push Ronon’s chin higher, a warm tongue swipes along his collar bone and the whisper of breath against damp skin sends a shiver down his spine.

“You don’t ever need to be.”

Sheppard steps back and Ronon shakes his head forcing his brain to focus on the fight. 

“You fight dirty.”

“Teyla taught me all her best tricks.” 

Sheppard raises his eyebrows and grins and Ronon launches his next attack with a growl that has Sheppard laughing and twisting away.

Ronon presses his attack, Sheppard defends and the next few minutes are lost to a series of attacks and counter attacks. Ronon’s muscles are developing the well worn ache from where Sheppard’s sticks have connected and he concentrates on looking for weaknesses in Sheppard’s stance or defence but sees none.

A flurry of blows sends Ronon backwards. Sheppard feints left and then at the last minute twists away. An ankle hooks behind his and Ronon’s shoulders meet the mat with a thud that knocks the breath from him. 

Sheppard follows him down with a fluidity that belies his tiredness, reversing the sticks - ends in one hand, tips in the other - pressing them down across Ronon’s throat in what would be a killing blow if he exerted any more pressure.

“Your point,” Ronon rasps out breathless. “Been a hell of a week.”

Sheppard’s panting, his smile of victory falling away and Ronon knows all about grief. 

He knows about locking it away so you can get on with the business of survival, knows how that comes back and bites you on the ass when you least expect it. Father dead, conflict with his brother, an ex-wife he hasn’t seen in 4 years and a rogue replicator on the loose - Sheppard sure has a lot of little boxes in his head that need to be kept closed.

“When that thing had you by the throat...”

Ronon doesn’t need to hear the rest because can read the words in Sheppard’s eyes and on his face - _I thought I’d lost you too, thought you were dead_.

His fingers curl around Sheppard’s neck and his own “I know” is whispered against Sheppard’s lips.

He’d like to tell Sheppard to hush, to tell him it’s okay, everything will be alright and that he’ll never leave - but they’re both too old, they’ve seen too much to believe in happy everafters. Family, friends, colleagues and lovers die and too often there’s nothing you can do about it.

His fingers tug at wet black material pulling the shirt over Sheppard’s head as Sheppard peels back soft worn cotton from Ronon’s skin. Sheppard’s laugh is brittle, fingers tugging at the lacings and buttons of Ronon’s pants.

“How much longer do you think these are gonna last?”

Ronon shifts, lifting his hips to let Sheppard peel the leather free. 

“As long as they need to.”

The pants and shirt were a gift from Melina – some of the few things he has left of her. 

Sheppard’s kiss is bruising and hungry and Ronon can taste salt, sweat and the bitterness of regret. But he can, for a few moments at least, replace that with something else - something vibrant and alive and good.

What they have is now and here. 

They have each other, a team and a city full of good people and maybe, just maybe, the hope of a future.


End file.
